Christmas With My Dead Father
by TheNightimeSky
Summary: -"Patrick? Do - do you want to open Dad's gift. . ." Jeanne's voice trailed off as she held out a thick package to me.- It's the little moments that define people, and sometimes we don't have all the answers.


**A/N: If you were looking for a happy, cheerful holiday story about the gang, this aint it. If you were looking for a **_**remotely **_**cheerful piece, this aint it. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own our mystery greaser daddy. Just his family. Oh, also do not own "100 Years" by Five For Fighting. Patrick's eighteen, not fifteen. **

_I'm fifteen ... for a moment/ Caught in between ... ten and twenty_

_And I'm just dreaming ... _

_Conting the ways ... to where you are ..._

"The end came quickly - there was little pain. . ."

What was "quickly"? He must've been in pain when he was slammed between those other two cars. How long was a second of unbearable, agonizing pain for the guy experiencing it? Was it _really _that quick? Or did they count the milliseconds - the nanoseconds - until they just died "instantly"?

I wanted to laugh at the doctors. How many other patients had they told this to? Did they even _care _that my dad was dead? No. Up to an extent, they simply didn't have the energy or overall-goodness to feel sorry for every poor sucker that lost his dad in a car crash.

I clenched my fists. My sister turned her head towards me, her dark gray eyes solemn.

"He's in Heaven now, Pat. I'm sure he is." And that was that. You didn't question Jeanne when she started talking about serious topics. You just didn't.

I looked down at my sister, who was leaning into me, still sniffling. She blinked a couple of times, her eyes sparkling. The bright, white glare of the hospital light reflected into my baby sister's eyes. It wasn't fair.

I reached over the cluttered coffee table and squeezed my mother's hand. She jumped a little, and her face crumpled into a tender, hysterically-sad smile that made me want to bawl. "I'm sorry, sweetie. It's just - it's so close to Christmas and everything. . ."

Christmas. I thought of our tree - which was real. "You simply can't have Christmas with a fake tree," my dad had said stubbornly. - with its tangy, fresh pine scent, of it filling the room. My dad always smiled at the tree, like it was the greatest thing in the world. I used to sit on his lap and look up at him, wondering what he was thinking. I was always thinking: asking and never getting answers.

I shook my head, biting my bottom lip. They were horribly chapped, and I tasted the sharp, rusty taste of blood. I closed my eyes, keeping silent, because I knew that if I opened my mouth, I might start crying, and I'd never be able to stop.

--

"I talked to him right before he left." I lifted my head wearily, focusing on the figure that stood before the couch.

"What?" I yawned, propping myself up on my elbow, looking over at Jeanne. "It's one o'clock. Get back to bed." But I didn't lay down.

She brushed some of the light brown hair out of her eyes. "He - he told me that he just wanted to go take a jog in the park. You know the one with the trees?" I snorted. There were trees _everywhere_ in Pennsylvania. "Why would _Dad _go jogging?"

"Beats the hell outta me," I mumbled. My throat felt raw and worn down. In a weird way, I thought it kind of matched my heart. I stared at my sister. She was one of those people with a sensitive, happy face, and you never knew what she was going to do.

She'd run in the middle of the street to pick up a littered bag, or jump outside in the pouring rain singing Bon Jovi songs. She was odd, my wonderful, insane, weird sister.

"Sometimes. . ." she fidgeted nervously. "He'd tell me 'bout being a kid. Man, you should _hear _the sort of junk him and his buddies got into." She laughed and a pang of hurt went through me.

"He never told me this stuff," I said softly, hoping for an explanation on her part. She merely cocked an eyebrow and pushed her tongue against her lip; she was thinking. I faltered under her curious stare.

"Well, whatever. I didn't wanna know the stories anyway," I said flatly, settling back into the fold of the couch. I ignored my little sister's whines and pleads to keep talking to her. She was sixteen; she knew better than to whine.

I fell into a restless sleep, wondering about my dad, the ghosts of things that used to be, and if I was everything he had wanted me to be. I shivered, but not from the cold.

--

I woke up the next morning, and poured myself a cup of coffee. My parents always made the coffee the night before so all they had to do in the morning was turn it on. Well, Mom did. Dad always forgot to do it. I got the feeling that he never liked coffee too much anyway.

"Makes me feel sad," he'd say, grimacing at the cup. "Too many memories in coffee, I guess." But he'd always take another sip anyway. I never understood that. Why would he _want_ to feel sad?

I took a sip of my own cup, letting the bitter, earthy taste fill my mouth. Mom came in and mumbled "hello", then went snooping through the fridge. She sighed.

"What?" I mumbled, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.

She smiled weakly. "I guess I forgot to buy eggs. Oh, well - I kind of don't want to make cookies this year anyway." She cupped her head in her hands, yawning. I felt a pang of loneliness. It was a tradition. It wouldn't be Christmas without my mother's baking.

"_It wouldn't be Christmas, anyway," _I reasoned in my mind.

I don't know why I did it, but all of a sudden, I stood up. "I'll get 'em."

She lifted her head, looking shocked. "No, honey. It's alright. I - I kinda don't want you going out anyway." I rolled my eyes but nodded afterwards, and she smiled.

The funeral was to be in five days. Christmas was in three days. Family would pour in, pay their respects, and linger, as if we wanted them here. Everyone planned for death, and they shipped these funerals out like mass production items. It made me mad, and not a mild, silent mad, but a raging, howling mad that built up inside of me. What was missing, and when was I going to fucking find out what it was?

Three days before Christmas, but it wouldn't be Christmas for a long time. The wind blew against me, the biting, whistling wind whipping against me. I flicked up my collar to shut it out, and I let my mind just wander. .

I walked outside, and tried starting the car. It gave a few wheezing breaths, then stopped. I turned the key again, this time a little longer. It wouldn't turn on. I sighed, getting out to look under the hood.

I thought of when I was ten years old. . .

x-x-x-x-x

_Dad, Jeanne and I were sitting in the car, when all of a sudden there was a loud, cracking bang, and we stopped._

"_What happened!" Jeanne exclaimed. _

"_Eh - the car died, I s'pose," Dad replied, looking back at my sister. She smiled brightly. _

"_Oh, poor car!" _

"_It's a fig'er of speech , you dummy," I rolled my eyes at her. She stuck her tongue out, and I threw my paperback book at her. She squealed._

"_Hey! Hey now, you two," my dad said sternly, looking at us both. "Patrick - don't call your sister names." _

_I waited for him to reprimand my sister. He didn't. "S'not my fault she's acting dumb. . " I mumbled. He raised his eyebrows reproachfully at me, not commenting on my "bad behavior". _

"_C'mon. We'll go see what's wrong with the car." I hopped out of the car, my sister smiling triumphantly at getting to stay in the warm car. I stuck my tongue out at her. _

_He lifted the hood, peering down at the car. He sighed. "Well, I guess we could fix this ol' thing. . ." He didn't sound too sure._

"_Do you know what you're doing?" I asked apprehensively as my dad hesitated, bringing forth a couple of thick cables. "Yeah, I think. I used to hang out in a garage when I was younger."_

_I nodded, not very interested. "How old were you?" _

_He thought about it for a moment. "I dunno - fifteen? Well, I know what I'm doing." _

_Five minutes later, he tried starting the car, and it roared to life. Jeanne and I cheered. My dad smiled triumphantly._

_I guess he knew what he was doing, after all. _

x-x-x-x-x

I sighed, looking back at the car now. It had been a cold night, but the presence of my sister, dad, and me being together seemed to make it warmer. Right now, it was just a cold, quiet winter morning. I looked back at the car and went to get the jump-start cables.

--

I finally got the eggs at the nearby 7-Eleven, and as I went to the counter, I saw a whole collection of things. Gum, candy bars, magazine, cigarettes. . .

I smiled again, remembering the first time I tried smoking when I was fourteen.

_x-x-x-x-x-x_

_A friend at school had been the one to give me one, and I put it in my mouth, as he lit it. I breathed in a small breath, feeling the smoky, bitter taste fill my mouth. I took a deeper breath and gagged. It had filled my entire mouth, pouring down my throat. Disgusting. I pocketed the second one, making my way home. _

"_Hey, Patrick?" Dad was in my doorway that night. "C'mere for a moment." _

_I followed him, getting very nervous. "Yeah?"_

_He picked up my jeans from the hamper, and took out the cigarette. I gulped. "Listen - Dad, I, uh - "_

_He smiled, holding up a hand. "I get it, buddy. I won't tell her mother. God knows, she'd flip her lid," I squirmed at this statement. "But I gotta tell you now, smoking's just a place-holder. It just eats away at time, and keeps you away from the big picture. _

"_Life's hard enough without all these obstacles gettin' in the way." He handed me the cigarette and I threw it in the garbage can. We both grinned at each other. _

x-x-x-x-x

I wiped my eyes furiously as the dark-skinned guy behind the counter rang me up. I ducked my head and mumbled my thanks as I took the plastic bag and walked out the door, the tinkling bell noting my exit.

--

I walked into the house, slamming the door by accident.

"Don't slam the door - ," my mother started saying, but stopped when she saw me grin sheepishly, holding up the bag.

"I - um, got eggs," I said in a small voice. I felt like an idiot, actually. Did I expect us to just make cookies and everything would be alright again? I didn't even want to _admit _to my mother that I missed Christmas. It sounded childish. It sounded _selfish. _It sounded -

"Mama? Can we make Christmas cookies?" Jeanne's voice floated from behind me. I turned around: her smile was sad, but her eyes were sparkling.

"Yeah, baby. We can make 'em," Mom said tearfully.

So now we're making cookies. Once upon a time, this reminded me of something else, too. . .

x-x-x-x-x

"_Hey Dad," I said excitedly to him, jumping into his open arms. "Guess what?" _

"_Hmm. . ." he rubbed his chin, his eyes twinkling happily at my eagerness. "What is it, kiddo?"_

"_I got a new friend!" I said exuberantly. I had been about eight at the time, and didn't have a lot of new friends around. I had skipped a grade before, and as soon as any kid in my grade realized that I was younger than them, a barrier went between me and them, and making friends had been difficult. _

"_Oh, yeah?" He smiled happily. I knew he was, too. I wasn't very outgoing, and a new friend was something to be happy about. "Well, when do I get to meet him?" _

_I giggled. "He went home, but he said he might come over tomorrow - that okay?"_

_He nodded, putting me down and ruffling my hair. "Y'all can help your sister and Mama make cookies." I made a face. At eight years old, that was a "girl chore". "Well, we'll see, eh?" _

_It's been a while since I thought of him. Aaron. My best friend up until recently when he moved. I wondered how he was doing, now that I stop to think. _

"_Hey Mom," I wandered into the kitchen, checking behind me to make sure my friend was still there. "This is Aaron. This is my Mom and sister, Jeanne." Jeanne smiled shyly, her hands covered in beige cookie dough. _

"_Would you boys like to help? We got plenty," Mom smiled warmly at us, gesturing towards the large lump of cookie dough. Aaron's light blue eyes flickered brightly, instead of him snorting distastefully like I expected him too. _

"_Yeah, Mom. We'll help." _

_As it turned out, Aaron was even quieter than me. We both scrunched the dough lumps together, trying to mimic my mom's pretty shapes. It didn't work out too well, but my mom was still thrilled. I still remember the smell. _

_My mom glowed happily, I smiled shyly back at Aaron, and Jeanne just licked the spoon. _

_My dad chose to come in at around that time._

"_Mmm. I chose a good time to come home, huh?" He sniffed the cookies on the cooling plate._

_My mother swatted him with the dish towel. "Uh-uh. You're going to have to wait, mister."_

_He smiled at her, kissing her on the cheek. Jeanne held up one of her misshapen cookies._

"_They're funny looking!" she exclaimed. _

_Dad took it gently from her. "The best cookies are always funny looking, hon." He popped it in his mouth, grimaced, and kissed her on the forehead. _

x-x-x-x-x

Mom placed the cookies in the oven, shutting the door gently. She turned around and smiled softly at us, trembling a little. Jeanne faced me too, smiling slightly. We'd be OK, me and my family. Maybe not now, maybe not in a long time, but we'd be alright.

--

It was Christmas today.

I missed those past Christmases, when everything was soft and lovely and warm. This Christmas was just sad though. Bleak and gray. Because we were missing a piece to the puzzle. Dad.

"Patrick? Do - do you want to open Dad's gift. . ." Jeanne's voice trailed off as she held out a thick package to me. The floor was littered with paper. Mom hadn't opened Dad's gift, but Jeanne couldn't resist. She had gotten two books from him - "_The Catcher in the Rye" _and _"The Perks of Being a Wallflower". _

I took a deep breath and ripped open the paper. It was a binder. A _big _binder.

"_What the hell, Dad?" _I laughed to myself quietly. I opened it up, and saw a mess of clumsily glued, fading pictures. Pictures of young boys in them, with long, slicked back hair. Some were groups, some were individuals. Some were smiling, some were scowling. There were other things pasted on the pages too. Jeanne came over to look. So did Mom. I breathed in my sister's earthy scent, and my mom's musky, sweet smell.

"Hey look! It's Dad," Jeanne smiled softly, pointing to a boy in the picture. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen. The picture was old from wear, yellowed from age. And in black and white, showing that it was an _old _picture.

It was obviously him, because - and it shocked me a little - he looked like _me._ I couldn't tell what his eye color was. He was half smiling, but he looked hesitantly at the camera.

"That's a keeper. He really loved you, darling," Mom whispered in my hair, hugging me close. What did love mean anymore? I didn't know.

Just another question with no answer.

x-x-x-x-x

"_Hey, thanks," Aaron said to me while we were sitting on the stoop. "I know it was kinda dorky - but, I dunno. . .I had fun." _

_I smiled. "Me too." _

"_Well, boys, I think it's time to drive Aar home," my dad came outside, his gray sneakers right next to my butt. Aaron paled a bit. _

"_Nah, it's alright. I can just - eh -walk." _

_My dad blinked. "Where do you live again?" _

_He mumbled some place five miles from here. My dad laughed. "No reason to walk home in this!" He spread his arms out to the thin blanket of snow on the ground. The houses near ours exploded with colors; a way to make the quaint homes seem beautiful, if only for a month._

_Finally, we got Aaron in the car, as he got quieter and quieter. _

"_Wow!" I exclaimed as we pulled up in his driveway. His house was enormous, to say the least. It stood proudly and strong. My dad whistled. _

_We walked Aaron to his door, and my dad rang the doorbell. We were answered with an aggravated yell behind it, and another matching one. Aaron winced. _

_Finally, the door swung open and a man stood in the doorway. "Oh, er - hello there."_

_Aaron nodded at the man. "Hi dad." His father peered down at Aaron, and his gaze flicked towards my dad. "Well, thank you for bringing him home, Mr. - uh. . "_

_My dad and Aaron's dad exchanged information. My dad was getting nervous. Finally, the door shut, and I heard a little snippet of their conversation:_

"_Now, what did you mean to say?" His dad._

"_Um, uh - hello, sir," Aaron's small voice whispered. _

"_That's right." _

_I didn't think my dad heard this, but I saw him pale a little, looking afraid. _

_The drive home was almost completely silent. "Patrick?" _

"_Yeah, Dad?" _

"_I - I love you, son."_

_I didn't understand what he had meant, but I took it without question. My dad was weird. _

"_Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Dad, " I scoffed. _

x-x-x-x-x-x

Later that night, I leafed through the pages, going in deeper than I had with Jeanne and Mom. I shook it, and two notebooks fell out.

I pulled out the two books. They were about as old as the pictures. A whiter, newer slip of paper was slapped on the front of the top book. On it, it read the words, '_For Patrick, from Dad. _I opened it up:

_Dear Patrick (_the letter went),

_I know it's weird to be getting a letter from me when I'm right down the hall if you need anything. (_I snorted. Dad, you have no idea.) _but I dunno. . .I've never been good with out-right words. You can ask anyone, even your mom. I've always been better keeping these things to myself. It's easier, and that way you can erase if you make any mistakes. But I think I won't go over any of these mistakes. That isn't the point, right? _

_I bet you're wondering why I gave you a scrapbook. I' ve been thinking lately. About you. Me. And everything around. You're going to be eighteen, going off to college, making something of yourself. I'm proud of you. Real proud. I remember back in September when Aaron moved, how beat up you were about it. He's a good kid. Quiet, and observing, he reminds me of - well, someone I used to know. It's odd, actually. How many people are like him. And Aaron. The world's full of them - people with broken spirits, just watching the world and waiting to be saved, but not really hoping a lot - but each one seems so. . .important to us. Like they're one in a million. You stayed with Aar since you were only eight. You got him through those fights with his old man, you never did give up. Anyway, I'm rambling._

_That was one of the first big things that I realized we were alike. And I realized, "My son was eight years old, and this is the _first _time I can relate to him?' It was odd. I want to know you better, Pat. Honestly. So this is what I'm giving you. My past. My past that made way for my future; your life. This is everything I can give you. I'm giving you my past life. The life I guess I haven't been very eager to show you. _

_I love you, son. More than you'll ever know. You're going to make something of yourself. But I'm not worried 'bout that. You don't need to make me proud, I already am. _

_Before I start getting too corny, I better stop._

_Love,_

_Dad. _

Now I just sobbed. My breath shortened, my body racking in sobs. I didn't care anymore. Fuck being brave, or keeping all together. Fuck all of the stupid things that I thought - what a complete waste of time I spent - I never knew him, and I goddamn fucking _hated _it. I missed him so badly. My father, my dad, _my best damn friend. Nothing _made ths alright - nothing ever could, I felt.

I flipped open the book, and my eyes flicked towards the name. My eyebrows raised, but for once, my mind didn't fill with any questions. Nothing. I wasn't rejecting the information anymore, trying to get more out of something than there was. I just wanted to get some answers for the questions I already had, instead of asking for more.

And so, I began to read:

_"_When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."

_-- _

I walked down the hall quietly, aware that it was only about four o'clock in the morning. I opened the kitchen drawer and took a little box. I walked to the car, and drove off quietly in the morning darkness. A tall hill stood above a cluster of trees. Dad said that he sometimes went up there to think. So that's where I was going to go, too.

I walked up, noting the chilliness in the air, hearing the pebbles crackle under my feet. The sky was a deep, quiet, cobalt; dark and thick like a quilt, wrapping itself across the sleeping earth.

I ripped the pages of the "story" from the two notebooks, holding them out as they blew in the quiet, weak breeze. I took out the little matchbox, and struck it clumsily. It blew out almost immediately. After a couple of more tries, and me shielding the match's flame against the wind, I set the pages on fire. I held it by the corner, until it too was slowly eaten away by the flame. I dropped it on the ground, careful not to let it wander.

Finally, the fire died, I cupped the burnt black paper in my hands and crushed it, feeling the heat of the dead fire. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. I smiled.

There was something about that book. Something in the words - between them, in them - that made it alive. The pain, confusion, hurt, comfort as they flowed across the paper. I can't ever imagine what he was feeling at the time. I have the story. I have the brain to comprehend it. But it wasn't the same as _being _there. Maybe that was just the case for most stories?

It didn't seem right that this little piece of my dad should live, preserved forever, while he was gone. The story of gallant knights that lurk in the shadows until they're needed. Always watching. Always waiting, as the world looks down on them, and always dreaming. It was a big part of your life to keep hidden in a book, I thought. It shouldn't have to be that way.

I opened my hands, and with a soft breath, blew the ashes off the cliff, the wind helping me blow them away. I'd like to think that the wind was my dad just helping me as I let the trapped souls in the pages float away. Now they were free. All of that pent up energy all of those strong feelings that _needed _to be let out, were gone, twirling and flying in the breeze joyfully, like a bird that's been in a cage for too long.

I watched them fly rapidly in the breeze for a little longer as the sun came up over the horizon. The lavender, pink, blue, red, and colors of everything else mixed together, like a finger painting that a child would do. The sun was an explosion of colors, rising majestically and warming the earth. It gave me hope. For things that are going to come. For a new day.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," I whispered, even though I knew I was a day late. But who knew? Maybe … wherever he was, he had just arrived there. Unpacked his things, said "hi" to his friends, and had just settled down in his favorite armchair, watching. Waiting. Maybe … I was right on time.

I turned my back to the sun, making my way down the little path as the wind died down. The whistling faded slowly, and I listened closely so I could hear what it was saying.

_Fifteen, there's still time for you. /Time to buy and time to lose._

_There's never a wish, better than this,_

_When you only got a hundred years to live. _

--

**A/N: Well, that was perfectly awful, huh? **

***sigh* By the way - there was a point to me not revealing who the "dad" was until the very end. If you guessed that it was Ponyboy, good job. I thought it was obvious, but that might be because I wrote it? **

**I know that it was long - I'm sorry. **

**Happy holidays, my readers. Review, critique, flame - do what you must, and do it well. **


End file.
